ABOUT NEW YORK

ABOUT NEW YORK; COVERING THE CASE OF BERNHARD GOETZ

By William E. Geist

Published: January 12, 1985

''Enough already!'' snapped a middle-aged man, waving off a reporter and striding into his apartment building.

The man lives at 55 West 14th Street, in the same building as Bernhard Goetz, who three weeks ago was just Bernie, his mild-mannered, bespectacled neighbor in the electronics field, but who is now Bernhard Hugo Goetz, ''Death Wish Vigilante,'' folk hero of millions and for the moment, perhaps, the most talked-about man in the country.

''Enough already'' seemed to sum up the feelings of the reporters who have been staking out the apartment building since Mr. Goetz surrendered, as well as the building's tenants and employees whom they have been badgering for even the most minute morsels of information.

The middle-aged man yelling that had made the mistake of saying he had witnessed Mr. Goetz eating a meal in the New Courtney Restaurant next door. The reporters pressed for details. What had Mr. Goetz ordered? ''It was a sandwich,'' the man answered. ''Turkey, I think.''

A follow-up question, concerning the presence of lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise on said sandwich, set the man to yelling and running into the apartment building. And so it remains an open question whether the sandwich was the No. 1 Triple Decker Sliced Turkey with bacon, lettuce, tomato and mayonnnaise, or was it the Monte Cristo turkey sandwich, on French toast. It could even have been the open-faced hot sliced turkey with gravy and cranberry sauce, for all the press knows.

At least readers knew exactly what Mr. Goetz had eaten for lunch the day before. A newspaper and a television station had acted on a tip that Mr. Goetz had made an excursion to New Jersey, and each sent news teams to retrace his steps. The New York Post published a photograph of ''the type of toy fire engine Bernhard Goetz purchased'' at a Toys 'R' Us store in Union, N.J. (Mr. Goetz said he had promised it as a gift for a child).

The newspaper also published a photograph of Irene Wienckoski, a waitress at the nearby Mark Twain Diner, who had served him lunch: ''turkey sandwich on whole wheat and a glass of orange juice.'' A pattern of turkey sandwiches was beginning to take shape in the Goetz case.

One television viewer, however, insists that Channel 4 reported the turkey was on rye, however - not whole wheat. In The Post, Miss Wienckoski said: ''He left me a $3 tip on an $11 bill. I was impressed because he was so generous.''

''There is nothing left to report,'' said one of the reporters staking out Mr. Goetz's apartment building. The reporters said they were left with the likes of reporting on turkey sandwiches because Mr. Goetz was not granting interviews.

The Post did corner Mr. Goetz in the New Courtney coffee shop and managed to obtain a few mumblings from him that were artfully written up as an interview and offered under the front page headline: ''Exclusive Interview: 'DEATH WISH' VIGILANTE TALKS.''

The story began:

''Bernhard Goetz gave a firm handshake.

''He was told the subways will never be the same.

'' 'I hope not,' he said and returned to his toasted sandwich and cold slaw.''

The newspaper is to be congratulated on its scoop - yet certainly readers are entitled to know: what kind of toasted sandwich? And what is this 'cold slaw'?

The legions of reporters were finally told to leave the apartment lobby this week. ''I mean,'' said a woman who lives in the building, ''there is really nothing more to say. I told one of them I had seen Bernie leaving the building this week, and the reporter asked, 'Did you happen to catch his shoes?' ''

''Some of the people in this building,'' she said, ''have become absolute hams, and spout off to the TV cameras on things they know nothing about.''

Jose Barquet, a porter at the apartment house, said some tenants and employees had been offered money for anecdotes. Mr. Barquet said he had been offered $500 by newspapers to obtain a photograph from Mr. Goetz's apartment and $1,000 to let them into the apartment. Several building employees said a newspaper had illegally broken into the apartment.

Mr. Barquet said a representative of The National Enquirer had offered to pay him a lot of money to tell about Bernhard Goetz's personal life - ''more than $30,000, if the story is good enough,'' he said.

''This is a very competitive newspaper war,'' said Michael Shain, a Post reporter who had been on a stakeout of the rear entrance of the apartment building for 12 hours on a recent day. ''There is a lot of loose money floating around on this story, money for access, money for information from cabdrivers, that kind of thing.''

The building superintendent, Agustin Barquet, said he was happy that only a few reporters were now covering the building.

''There were armies of them,'' he said. ''We had to call the police to keep from being overrun. They would have taken over the buidling and beaten down Mr. Goetz's door.

''Now there is not much more for them to learn, and they ask about who Mr. Goetz voted for, whether he has taken a shower or what kind of shoes he is wearing. The judge and jury aren't going to care about that.''

He told the reporters he had visited Mr. Goetz, who had been eating a sandwich. ''What kind of sandwich?'' a reporter in the group shouted. ''I didn't try it,'' was Mr. Barquet's reply. ''They have had their stories,'' he said, ''and now it is time for them to be quiet. There is a lot of baloney now,'' he said, ''not the sandwich, the questions.''

Four carloads of reporters and photographers remain, focusing on the front and back doors and the exit from the parking garage. ''We are all sick of it by now,'' said one photographer. The reporters agreed they were still there because the reporters from other papers were still there.

John Randazzo of The Daily News had been staking out the back door of the building for nine hours one day, to no avail. ''I've picked up absolutely nothing today,'' he said. ''I went to the restaurant, because he reportedly ate a sandwich there. I couldn't find out if it was a ham or a cheese, that's the kind of day it's been.''